It’s been around five days since my ill-fated attempt to force metamorphosis and, yup, I’m still human and still pissed off about it. On some level, I thought I’d made a kind of breakthrough that night that’d have me on the fast track to whatever self-actualization I still lack. Yet somehow, the only thing to come from that whole mess is that I’ve started drawing again. Guess life is just chock full of those disappointing anticlimaxes that do everything to subvert our own grandiose expectations of how things should play out.

 

A hop, skip and jump from my high school is a small, decrepit park. The jungle gym is rusty, dusty, and a little bit crusty. The sandbox has become nothing more than a large litter for the neighborhood strays. The bathroom… we don’t talk about the bathroom; trust me, you’re better off joining the cats in the box. Point is, with its hidden by the underbrush locale and a foot traffic density comparable to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, this little oasis has become my safe haven to escape from the rest of the world and enjoy some peace and quiet.

 

“Hiya!” Nearly jumping out of my skin at the shrill voice behind me, I curse my inner monologue that only seems to beg the world to prove me wrong at any given time. “Watcha doin’?” Somehow, my one land of respite and joy has been invaded by a little girl who’s probably no older than five or six.

 

Flipping my notebook closed, I try to hide my sketches. “I was just drawing, what about you? Shouldn’t you be with your parents or something?” 

 

Making herself as tall as possible, the girl strikes a pose like a superhero dramatically announcing their arrival. “I’m not a baby, I can look after myself!” After her dramatic announcement, she grabs at my book. “Whatcha drawing?”

 

Unfortunately for her, even my unrefined reflexes are enough to dodge out of the way of someone so tiny. Before she even gets close, I’ve held the book far above my head and out of her reach. “None of your beeswax, kid.”

 

“Awwwww...” Somehow packing a lifetime’s worth of guilting disappointment into a single sound, the girl pouts while staring longingly at my sketchpad. Nice try kid, I have a younger brother that used to try and act cute to get his way. I am so beyond being swayed by silly little attempts like this. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease.” Alright, so she can pull off a pitiful face on par with Puss in Boots. Impressive, but ultimately ineffective… this really isn’t going to work. Oh, for the love of god, don’t you dare sniffle at me. “Okay, I’m sorry for bothering you.” My heart-- 

 

“Fine!” I growl, annoyed at my own weakness. Years of my brother being an awkward ugly teenager have dulled my resistance to such merciless power plays. “I’m just drawing some cartoons. It’s nothing special.”

 

Really, considering the fact that I’m speaking to a child, I should have known better than to use the c-word. “Cartoons!? I love cartoons! Show me show me show me show me--” She continues bombarding me with the same pair of words in the exact same intonation like a record skipping on a scratch. Hello, migraine, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again…

 

Realizing that this is one battle of the wills that I’m just not going to win, I finally hand over my book. The girl snatches it out of my hand and starts tearing through the pages, sometimes literally. She oohs and ahhs as she flips through various sketches and drawings I collected during my time in middle school. Finally, she settles on one drawing in particular, staring wide-eyed at a character I haven’t thought of in years. “Who’s this?”

 

Squatting down to see the page she’s paused on a bit better, I can’t help but smile. “That right there is Willow, she used to be my favorite.” Staring back at me, in messy ink lines, is a young woman with a beaming smile on her face. She has shoulder-length hair, an outfit that couldn’t decide if it drew inspiration from punk rockers or pop stars, and insanely large feet -- look, this was made years ago, cut me some slack. “I think there’s more of her somewhere… Ah, right here.” Flipping a few pages ahead, I find a drawing I had made to be a cover for a comic book I was planning on making back in the day. It features Willow, narrowly dodging a fireball being thrown by a horned woman holding a pitchfork.

 

“Hey, it’s Mommy!” The little girl squeals with excitement while pointing at the villain. “Why’s she trying to hurt the pretty lady?”

 

The girl calling my character pretty only widens my smile. “That’s actually Ms. Hellfire -- I mean, Heckfire. She’s mad because Willow made a deal to stay in heck with her in exchange for… something? I actually don’t remember the specifics. Well, Willow decided that she wanted to get her a gift from Earth, but Ms. Heckfire thought she was trying to leave her all alone. The two end up friends again in the end.”

 

Nodding sagely, like her handful of years have wisened her greatly, the girl hums. “Good, it would be sad if they couldn’t be friends anymore. Mommy really needs more friends.”

 

“And who exactly are you saying needs more friends?” I feel like I know this voice… There’s no way I know this voice. It couldn’t possibly be -- Haley emerges from one of the thickets lining the park with a wide smile on her face. Upon seeing me, her smile flashes to a panicked rage for a split second before shifting back to the warm expression from a moment prior. “You… what are you doing here?”

 

Yeah, no, pretty sure that’s my line. Before I can meet my dangerous acquaintance with my regular dose of ill-advised snark, the little girl next to me hops up and down with glee. “Mommy, Mommy! Look at the pictures!”

 

Mommy… it’s a word I’m sure I recognize but doesn’t quite compute in this scenario. “Mo-mmy?” I repeat, somehow unsure of how the sound is supposed to feel in my mouth. “That’s your mommy?” I ask, more confused than I’ve ever been in my life to this point. The little girl nods her head faster than a woodpecker and I just blankly look between the two trying to figure things out.

 

Walking calmly, yet swiftly, right at me, Haley turns to the child. “Oh, do you like his drawings?”  While the little girl starts gushing about some of my work, Haley finishes closing the distance between us and pulls me close to her by the collar. Her voice drops to a whisper as all of the kindness and warmth she uses in front of the child evaporates into her usual threatening and mirthless tone. “You will keep your damn mouth shut about this, or I will fucking kill you. Understand?” Nodding just as quickly and enthusiastically as the girl, I swallow a gigantic lump in my throat. It’s not that Haley isn’t intimidating all of the time, but something in the way she’s speaking now sends shivers down my spine. “Good boy.”

 

With that matter settled, Haley lets go of me and walks over to the girl. “Hey, Phoebe, sweetheart, we have to get going so I can make us dinner, okay?” The girl cheers at the prospect of eating, a sentiment I truly understand from the depths of my soul. Haley grabs the notebook from her… daughter? Yeah, that's still gonna take a minute to process. She steals a glance at the open page and does a double-take. “Interesting sketch, Willow.” With a wicked grin, she tosses the book back at me and ushers Phoebe out of the park as the little girl screams and waves back at me.

 

Amidst the lovely sounds of nature, my mind fires like an old dial-up modem trying to connect. Now given what just went down, I’d naturally expect myself to be stunned at the revelation regarding my archenemy and her family tree. Hell, being shaken by an even more legitimate death threat than the ones I’m used to receiving wouldn’t be too out of character either. Both of these aspects of this chance encounter are nowhere near the front of my mind. No, the only thing running through my head is the way Haley called me Willow. I mean, I didn’t base Willow on myself… I’m nothing like her. She’s beautiful, snarky, and cunning in that playful way that makes you reluctantly smile at whatever hare-brained antics she cooks up. But the way Haley says it, the way it sounds as it lilts past my ears and into my head, everything in this moment is… perfect.

***

 

All concentration is lost and my time in the park comes to a sudden end as I thoughtlessly shamble back home. It’s just some throw-away insult meant to hurt me, why am I reading so much into this? Walking through my front door, I realize that my parents aren’t home yet. I really did come back earlier than usual. From Franky’s room, I can hear the telltale sounds of some shooter as my brother frustratedly yells about “fucking campers.” Yeah, suck it, nerd, that’s for all my poor deceased worms from the other night.

 

Running on auto-pilot, I somehow end up back in my room, facing the full-length mirror I’d long since relegated to hanging out in the clutter corner. Seeing myself again, I instantly sober up. Obviously I was just being toyed with, look at me. There are zero similarities between myself and Willow besides our initials. For starters, I’m wearing a stuffy school uniform… though, I mean, clothes are easy. I’m pretty sure I could find the right clothes. Then her hair is somewhat longer than mine… but if I sweep what I have off to the side, it’d probably get kind of close…

 

Hold on, I think I can make something happen. 

 

Skulking through the shadows like an elite ninja on a top-secret mission, I infiltrate my parent’s room. Prying the closet door open slowly enough that it won’t creak, I quickly riffle through the hung-up articles of clothing. I pull out a simple sundress, a black leather jacket (way to go, Mom), and from the bottom racks, a pair of black ankle boots. With my modest haul, I tiptoe back to my room and shut the door. Alright, let’s see what we can do.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in front of my mirror once again. It’s -- It’s not perfect. But it is something. Looking from my old drawing and back to the mirror, I crack a small smile. An expression that gets me even closer to the intended look. In the end, playing dress-up is fun and all, but I’m still just me. You can name a cat Tiger, but it’s not going to be ready to hunt prey in the wild anytime soon. I’m just, and will always be… W.

 

“Hey, champ, your mom and I are ordering pi...zza. Huh.” Bursting into my room as if closing a door isn’t supposed to afford someone a modicum of privacy, my dad stops short of his announcement when he sees me looking at him like a deer in the headlights. Guess those two were uncharacteristically quiet when they got back home, great. Well, my life is over, hope you all enjoyed reading my last will and testament. I don’t have much in the way of worldly possessions so y’all can figure out how to divide my crap on your own.

 

Dad’s head twists a couple of times as he tries to assess the situation before his mouth begins flopping open and closed. The two of us stand for a moment in different shades of shock neither able to figure out a way to move past our silent stalemate. He turns away from me and yells down the hallway. “Hey, hon, pretty sure this is your area of expertise.” Turning back to me with a guilty smile, dad just kind of shrugs. “Sorry kid, you may want to brace yourself.”

 

As if she was waiting to be cued in, Mom slithers past Dad after he gives his ominous warning. She pauses in the doorway and takes a deep breath. “Alright, calm down Lola, be cool, this might not be what it looks like…” Yeah, it’s always a bad sign when your parents short-circuit and start talking to themselves. Hey, it’s perfectly normal when I do it, don’t judge me! After collecting herself for a moment, mom begins talking in the most stoic voice I’ve heard from her in all my years. “Honey, what are you doing?”

 

“I-- I don’t know.” Ah fuck it, short of the Jedi mind trick I’d yet to master, there really isn’t a chance at smooth-talking my way out of this one. “Someone… someone called me Willow today and it made me happy so I thought I’d try to dress like her?” Maybe if I say it nonchalantly enough, they won’t realize how absurd I sound right now?

 

My mother starts vibrating, as a high-pitched noise starts building in the back of her throat. “Lola, dear, stay calm.” She nods at my father’s words but can’t speak on the count of her barely holding back a noise that I’m sure could wake the dead when fully unleashed. “S-- Umm-- Child, uhh, when you say Willow, are you talking about that girl you used to draw back in the day?”

 

Alright, how the fuck did they remember that? I could tell them all about a new video game I’m playing and they’ll still refer to every character as “Mario” but they can suddenly remember some shit from half a decade ago? That’s some selective memory bullshit. “Y-- Yeah.” Mom’s shaking intensifies as the sound she’s making becomes worryingly high-pitched. You’re supposed to take a tea kettle off when this happens, how do you release the tension from a ferret-woman?

 

My dad, being the brave man that he is, pays no attention to the building powderkeg next to him and asks one more question. “So… does dressing like Willow make you more comfortable?”

 

My face twists as I consider how honest I’m willing to be here. Considering the calm and mature air we’ve kept up to this point, I opt to just come out and admit the truth. “Yes. I think it does.”

 

My mother draws in a mighty breath of air before letting out one of the most ear-piercingly high-pitched screams I’ve ever heard. Her face erupts into a beaming smile and I can practically see little sparkles and hearts floating around her. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!!!!!”

 

“Hun, breathe,” Dad warns, knowing full well that she can and has made herself pass out in times like these before.

 

“Who cares about breathing!? She’s so pretty!!!” With that, Mom breaks out into a full sprint and tackles me onto my bed, wrapping me in an uncomfortably tight hug. Hearing Mom call me pretty causes my face to heat up all over again as I slowly have the life squeezed out of me. “We are going to do so much together. Manicures, pedicures, whatever other cures they’ve thought up by now, I have no idea. This is so exciting!”

 

Once again, I’m awash in a feeling of wholeness and joy… but something is still wrong. Reprising my role as an absolute downer I pull away from my still squealing mother. “Mom, Dad, um… thanks, I guess. I -- I appreciate that you’re not mad about this but… I don’t know if this is quite right.”

 

“Not quite right?” Mom repeats, her joy replaced with somber confusion. “What’s wrong, dear?”

 

“I -- I don’t know. I mean, I like the idea of being Willow,” Mom squeals as I say the name again, “but… I’m not her. She’s just a character I drew when I was younger. Even if I wanted to be her, I couldn’t. I’m a guy. I look like this. I -- It’s just not me.” Once again I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. Goddamnit it, how many existential/identity crises am I going to have this week?

 

Sitting next to me, Mom wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Do you want to be her?”

 

Sitting on my bed for a solid minute, I try to push either one syllable answer I could give out again and again. Neither makes sense, but at the same time, they both do. Finally, I give up and my head drops. “I don’t know. I just don't know.” I rest my elbows on my knees and bury my head in my hands. “What if I’m wrong? What then? Won’t people think I’m some kind of wishy-washy weirdo?”

 

Patting my head, mom lowers her voice. “I know I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but nobody in this house would ever think less of you for just trying it out. If you want, we can all call you Willow, just as a trial run. If you want us to do more or less, it’s all up to you… okay?” Nodding in lieu of the words that seem so difficult to speak right now, I make a small sound of affirmation. “Good. We’ll do that for now and you let us know if the situation changes. And if you ever want to change your name outside of the house, we’ll support you one thousand percent.” Finally breaking completely, I pull my mom into a hug which she gently returns. “And if anybody out there gives you a hard time, I’ll rip a motherfucker to shreds. Like, literally, I will feed them their own arms. They will rue the day they ever fucked with my child and--”

 

Cracking up at mom’s familiar habit, I look back to the doorway. “Dad, Mom’s going feral again!” Having fully expected this outcome, Dad swoops in and pulls Mom away. I can hear her all the way to their room as she rants about the very colorful ways she’d dole out her own form of justice on a hypothetical “motherfucker” while nearly foaming at the mouth. I love my family.